Reaping for Peeta
by CatrinCullen
Summary: Thought I'd write a little fanfic about Reaping from Peeta's perspective:-


"Peeta Mellark" Bellows Effie in her awful Capitol accent, her eyes scan the sea of District 12 boys. Though the reality ceases to sink in I manage to restrain my emotions, weakly. I don't want to look a fool in front of the watchful eye of Panem, especially after Katniss bravely volunteered for her sister, I'd be the laughing stock if I screamed or cried or fainted. My breathing becomes rapid; the air is too thick and shallow for me to inhale. I can feel the thump of my heart pulsing frantically beneath my ribcage, which feels surprisingly weak. A sickening churning sensation threatens to make me vomit at the pit of my stomach. A lump the size of a toffee apple rises in my throat and I find myself quietly choking. I now realise the truth, the reality registers all in one swift slap across my cheek. I manage to force my stiff, frozen legs to move, to walk up to the stage. My eyes are trained on a random point in the distance. As I mount the steps that lead to it, my eyes gape longingly at the exquisite girl who looks suffocated and torn but masques her emotions because I know she's a fighter. Katniss Everdeen. Quite possibly, the love of my life. I take it back at once, no Peeta, she _is _the love of my life, irrevocably and probably eternally.

I reminisce the moments in which farther informed me about Katniss's mother running off with a coal miner when I lining up for school at the tender age of five, and of course, the music assembly in where she took to the stage and song The Valley Song, note perfect. The birds fell silent, listening contently to her angelic, alluring voice. Eternally hers. I remember the dedicated years I spent watching her from the corner of my eyes, watching her blossom into a beautiful young lady. I always attempted conversation with my town friends, but I was fixated on Katniss, my attention persistently divided. Shy and secretly obsessed. The swish of her lengthy, intricate braid, her occasional smile that made my heart splutter, her enigmatic, deep eyes that sometimes caught mine on hers, but I always quickly looked away. I recall the day when I heard my mother barking distraughtly at her, enraged at the sight of her pawing through our bins. It was after her father died and the compensation from the district had run out, that I detected how bitterly starved her and her family had become. It hurt me immensely, to see the girl I loved so dearly almost vanish, become scrawny and feeble because she was always so bold and powerful. I saw her cheeks, the hollowest I'd ever seen them. I saw the tormented, lifeless gaze replace her marvellous, hypnotic eyes and bellow them hung large bluey, purple bags that represented sleepless nights and worry. I saw how baggy and loose her clothes had become, how her ripe lips turned chapped, flaky and parched. That cold, frosty January day ignited the spark in me that so desperately longed to help her starvation.

I burnt the loaves of bread, I dropped them into the tongues of fire that clicked some of crust charcoal. My mother soon found out and she slapped me viciously across my cheekbone, leaving a crimson slash. She sent me into the cascading rain to feed the burnt to the pigs; no one would buy burnt bread. I found Katniss, slumped against the tree near our pig sty, her enervated, weak knees buckled from under her feet. Her breathing was raspy and unequal; her vacant eyes gave a sense of surrender. I felt sharp spasm of pain race up and down spine, taunting and controlling, if she hurts, I hurt with her. I fed the first loaf to the pigs, as I was told to, tearing hunks then tossing them into the mud, until I confirmed my mother's attention was elsewhere. I was nervous, after all, this was the first time I was centre of her attention, it terrified me. I threw the remaining loaves in her direction; they scuttled towards her on the filthy floor. My nervous and my throbbing cheek did not help me accumulate the guts I needed to interact with her, or even acknowledge her. I stomped back into the bakery and heaved the groaning door behind me.

I thwack back down to reality as the President concludes the droning of 'The Treaty of Treason' and signals for me and Katniss to shake hands. Everything seems to be a whirl of emotions of and fast movements compared to my daydreams. I'm instantaneously alert has she slips her capable, elegant hand in mine. My heart is almost whacking against my chest, it's actually comical. I've always been complimented for having steady, reassuring hands so I take this as an opportunity to make an impression on her.

'He seems nice' I imagine her lulling voice telling someone about me. As our hands swing up and down, I simply squeeze her hand as mollifying as possible. I want to tell her she's not the only one petrified to the marrow of her bones, that I want to be here for her, every second of the way. I want to tell she won't be alone in the journey that we're only about to embark. She doesn't react at all. Right on cue, A whirlwind of mistakes dart round my head. What did I do wrong? Does she find hand squeezing insulting? Why didn't I pick up on this? Does she think I'm a twitcher, or I'm having some psychotic meltdown? I wonder if she thinks I'm making a gross, inappropriately seductive gesture, or does she simply not care?

_Get a grip Peeta,_ I snarl in my head, _she didn't react, built a bridge and get over it. Anyway, she's probably planning how to kill you, after all, this is the Hunger Games._


End file.
